by Various
In an amazing show of speed, Thor-Att glided swiftly over the rough ground, using his secondary tentacles for stability. Yothe called for him to be careful, but he did not hear her, or he ignored her. Burdened with the bag of supplies and food, Yothe followed as quickly as she dared. But she did not go so fast as to risk injury. They both had to make it back to Mondermount before nightfall.
Thor-Att, a short distance ahead, picked up the spore and punctured its float bladder. By the time she reached his side, he had enveloped the tiny creature with his tentacles, warming it, the float bladder hanging limply to the ground. Unsteady and gulping for air, Yothe reached out and grasped Thor-Att for support. When she gazed down at the tiny creature, she saw at once what the problem was: there were two.
“I can hardly believe it,” she said.
“They are both well formed.” Thor-Att spoke reverently. “The bladder of the second didn’t inflate. Its twin saved them both.”
“It’s a good omen,” said Yothe, joy and pleasure flashing in successive waves.
Taking the obsidian blade from her pack, she cut away the air bladder which also separated the twins. Her fore-tentacles were cold and she had trouble holding the knife, but the spore were slow-moving, too, and lay still for the short operation.
“There,” she said. “I now declare them younglings of Mondermont.”
Yothe had just put the knife away when the ground shook, and a roar sounded from the east. She grasped Thor-Att in fright.
“Get up the hill,” he cried.
Yothe grabbed the bag and followed. The ground shook again, and rocks rolled down the incline. Quickly, they scrambled up the slope as more stones tumbled past them. The grade was steep, but at last they gained the crest of the hill and there looked back to Mondermount.
From the caldera a dark cloud of ash ascended into the air and spread like black blood against the clear sky. The north slope had given way, and the first red of lava spilled from the fissure.
A second cloud, faint and sluggish, formed on the lower slopes, this one white, and slowly drifting upward. The spores of plants and lesser animals rose into the air to escape the deadly wrath of the volcano.
Thor-Att and Yothe embraced, sheltering the tiny younglings between them. “No,” Yothe said. “This cannot be the end.”
The wind around them, as if excited by the eruption began to howl, and yet they remained, two figures, unmoving upon the crest of the hill. I was not until their tears froze in their fur that they separated, and Thor-Att spoke.
“Dear Yothe, the task of saving these younglings may prove more difficult than we thought.”
Yothe’s voice was rough from her tears. “We cannot know that all is lost until we return.”
Thor-Att did not seem to hear her. “I said before that I did not come out onto the ice because of guilt, or even to defy the Elders. I came for these younglings; they are me, and I am them.”
“What are you saying?”
“My colony is Magd-Mount, it always has been. I have forever felt alone, a stranger, at Mondermount although I would have taken these younglings back there. But now…”
His voice choked and he could not go on, but Yothe sensed that the time for her to speak had come. “I knew before we left why I would defy the Elders and come out upon the ice. Though the lives of these younglings are of great value, I came for you. I would clasp with you, join with you to raise our younglings.”
“Then come with me, for either way, I think it is likely that we shall die.”
“Come with you? But where?”
“I go to Magd-Mont. I will return to my Mother Mount.”
“It’s too far. Thor-Att, you cannot make it. I have seen the stiffness in your limbs. You might not even make it to Mondermont if the ice tunnel has collapsed.”
“Neither of us may make it to Mondermont if the ice tunnel has collapsed.”
“What about the spores? Would you carry them to certain death?”
“We cannot know that.”
“Before the clouds hid the volcano I saw lava spill on the north side. It’s possible the south side survived.”
“Yothe, I may be old. But I’m resourceful. I believe I can find the tiny mound where I grew up. It’s on the way, and I can take shelter there.”
“It’s a terrible chance.”
“I must try. Never again will my life come to this point.”
“And when you arrive, what will you find?”
Thor-Att sighed and his head slumped. “If Magd-Mont has been completely destroyed, then it must be started anew.”
Yoth stiffened, tears streaming from her eyes. “Then give me one of the spores,” she said. “We neither one know if we shall survive, but the chances that one of the younglings will live are better if we split apart. It’s not the outcome of this terrible day that I want, but it is…”
Thor-Att put a tentacle softly to her mouth. The rising wind added urgency to their debate. “You are resourceful beyond your years. I shall give you one of the spores, and may the Mother Mount protect us both.”
“There is one other thing I want, Thor.” And she flashed love.
“Yes, I know, my dear Yothe. Let us clasp, here, on this barren hilltop, neither of us knowing if we shall survive.”
• • •
“We divided the younglings,” said the ancient Yothe-Att. “Thor-Att took one, and I took one.”
“Why didn’t you go together?” said one of the younglings, excitement flashing on her skin.
“We had no way of knowing which mound could support life. Sometimes it is many faces of the moon before the volcano quiets again. As it was, the tunnel from Mondermount had collapsed, and I had to make my way across the surface, over fissures, and great barriers of rock. I found a cave. That, and the unusual warmth of the sun those two days was the only thing that saved my life, and Thora’s.
“When I crawled back to the slopes of Mondermount, barely alive, I never expected to learn if Thor-Att had survived. His was the longer journey, but then, as he said, he was resourceful and strong. Not until we received the first message from Magd-Mont, years later, did I know.”
She drew back her tentacles to reveal an elongated circle carved into rock. It was the shape of the float bladder of a mush-cow stretched flat. “See, this is a copy of that first message. Here is Thor-Att, the one holding the basalt carver. Because he had explained to me how to interpret the markings I was able to determine their meaning.”
“He sent you this rock?”
“No, no,” Yothe-Att hooted. “These were markings on the bladder of a mush-cow spore. Thor-Att was the first to do such a thing. He held the spore until the wind was right, guessing that we would see it and send an expedition for it if it floated anywhere near Mondermount. As more came, we carved them here, so we would not forget.”
“Honored one.”
Yothe-Att looked up at the tall Kree who had slithered onto the choral platform.
“We have received a confirmation spore from Magd-Mont. They have a visual sighting on the spire that we raised at the end of our tunnel. They propose that the final excavation begin. The tunnels should meet in five days, perhaps six. The wind is against us, so we cannot respond. What is your command?”
“It doesn’t matter that we can’t respond. The details are already agreed upon. If they have sighted the spire, then the tunnels should meet. Proceed with the excavation.”
After the Kree had left, the circle of younglings gazed up at Yothe-Att.
“Did we get all these messages from Magd-Mont?” asked the smallest of the younglings, looking at the many ovals carved into the rock and their inscriptions.
“Oh, we’ve received far more than these. It was only in the beginning that we carved them onto the choral platform. There are far too many, now.”
Another Kree, tall and bearing her Nautus shell high, appeared. “We are ready for the younglings.”
“Then off with you,” said Yothe-Att, waving a tentacle. “My dau
ghter will instruct you on the last choruses.”
The younglings scurried to the ramp that led to the learning columns, but Thora descended and approached her mother. “Nobody else may tell the Att, but I will. You look tired. You should go to your chamber and rest.”
“I shall, Thora. I shall. Now go and see to their songs.”
Yothe-Att lingered on the teaching platform after her daughter had left. A tentacle passed over one of the messages, and a long-familiar ache rose within her. She saw upon the rock the usual marking for Thor-Att, with his basalt carver, but he did not stand. He lay stiff upon the platform that had been made for him.
In the distance, Yothe-Att heard the singing of the younglings as she retired to her chamber.
PAGEANT FOR A CRAZY MAN
by Gerald Warfield
First published in From the Depths (Mar. 2013), edited by Savannah Renee Warren and Susan Warren Utley
• • • •
IWOKE to a distant scream—only to close my eyes again. You would think that somebody screaming would bring me straight up out of bed, but sleeping late was one of the blessings of summer vacation, and that cot was comfortable. Besides, maybe I was dreaming.
Then I heard running outside the tent. I sat up in a flash and tried to throw off the covers, forgetting that I’d zipped the sleeping bag all the way up. Snaking out the end, I made for the door flap.
Ducking under a rope I scooted around the tent to where mom was grilling bacon over a smoky fire pit. She stood there, gripping that big fork she cooks with like she was ready for combat. I could see other people on the camp ground all heading in the same direction. Some were running. Dad was nowhere to be seen.
“They’ve crucified a man,” said the woman in front of the tent across the road, her pale face screwed up in a look of horror.
Mom turned on me. “Marge, get back in the tent.”
“Mom!”
“Now,” and she pointed with the fork. I spun around and stomped back into the tent.
Once inside, there was nothing to do but get dressed as quickly as possible. I couldn’t demand release from prison without decent clothes on.
I threw my pajamas on the ground and pulled on my jeans and my Howdy Doody sweatshirt. By now I could hear mom talking real low with that woman who’d camped across from us. The couple over there drove a Nash.
What kept mom and her from going to see the excitement for themselves was more than I could figure out. I paused at the door and then pulled back the flap, resolved to confront my mother with the urgent need to be informed as to what was going on in the world. But then I noticed our own car. We had a Ford station wagon. It was parked along the side in such a way that I could reach it without being seen. Once behind the car I could make it to the little side trail through the trees that I had explored yesterday. The trail split a ways down, one path going to a big cliff—Inspiration Point they called it—and the other to the front of the camp grounds where everyone was heading.
• • •
They crucified a man, the woman had said, and I knew what that meant. I pictured in my mind some guy with a towel wrapped around him nailed to a cross. When I came dashing off the trail I saw that a bunch of people had already congregated at the edge of the field just inside the entrance to the Pageant Campground. In the middle, above their heads, a big cross was beginning to tilt over. Some men were lowering it, and sure enough, there was something on the cross, but I was too far away to tell if it was a man or not.
I tore across the field, quick as a rabbit, but when I got there I slowed down. It made me nervous that neither mom nor dad were there. Curiosity got the best of me, though, and I squeezed between people to get close enough to see. The men had laid the cross on the ground, and everyone was looking down at it. Sure enough it was a crucifixion—sort-of.
There was a man tied to the cross, ropes all wrapped around his arms and his body. Some of the men were trying to untie him. One guy was cutting the ropes with a pocket knife. The man himself was struggling and holding up his head, making the weirdest faces.
It didn’t look like any picture of a crucifixion I’d seen. Whoever had done this wrapped the ropes around his body and arms like they didn’t want him even to wiggle, but they didn’t stick any nails in him. There was a crown kind-of thing lying next to him made out of grape vines. Oh, and he was fully dressed, no towel.
The man kept on struggling, and it struck me that he hadn’t cried out or said anything. He looked wild and grimaced, like he was trying to holler, but nothing ever came out of his mouth. At the edge of the crowd there were two big guys standing together laughing. They were townies, I guess. With overalls on, they didn’t look like campers. Nobody else seemed to think it was funny.
The man scrambled up when he got loose and rubbed his arms, looking this way and that like he was scared of the crowd. People tried to calm him down, but when somebody patted him on the shoulder he jerked away. Everyone kept their distance as he made for the road, and I was too fascinated to realize he was coming right at me.
We had someone called Crazy Harold back in Dayton. This guy was kinda like him. He didn’t like crowds, either. Crazy Harold had the mind of a child, dad said, but he was a fixture in the neighborhood. Everyone knew him, and he always said hello—on his good days.
Suddenly, this guy was right in front of me, like he was deciding whether to push me over. Then he kicked me. It wasn’t a hard kick. It was like a little kid who wants to be spiteful but doesn’t dare put his whole strength into it. By the time I was rubbing my shin he was loping around me.
“Pickin’ on a little girl. Let’s git’ him,” said the two big guys who had been laughing. I’d heard that tone of voice before.
“It didn’t hurt!” I said it much louder than I intended, it being a crowd and all, but in that moment, I realized that the crazy man was in danger.
My outburst was enough to stop the two bruisers. They both gave me poisonous looks.
“Let him go,” Someone in the crowd said.
“He’s been traumatized enough,” said a woman’s voice.
By now the crazy man had made it to the road. I thought I might follow him to make sure he got away, but in the corner of my eye I saw dad bearing down on me.
• • •
“It was just a prank, bunch of kids,” my dad said. “Locals pick on him all the time.”
“Well, I can’t believe Marge slipped over there.” She sniffed, as if I’d personally insulted her. “And she’s got a huge bruise on her leg.”
“Actually, she comported herself very well.” Dad gave me an approving nod. “The guy was a mute. I think he just wanted to get away from all the attention.”
”People can be so cruel. Couldn’t he have suffocated hanging up there like that?”
“Well, it wasn’t good for him, that’s for sure, but that cross is the one they use for their Easter pageants. It’s got a little platform where you can stand on it. I don’t think they meant to hurt him. It was a joke that went too far.”
• • •
The next morning I was awakened early, again.
“Get up,” mom said, “We’re leaving.”
“Why?”
“Roll up your sleeping back and bring it out to the car.”
“What about breakfast?”
“And put your clothes in the duffle bag.”
I was already in deep doo-doo, so I caved in without further resistance. Then it hit me: it had to be the end of the world for mom to let me get away without eating breakfast. Something was up, no doubt about it.
I could hear mom and dad outside folding up the chairs and loading the station wagon. I had just finished tying my sleeping bag when I heard a car stop on the gravel road outside our tent.
“Y’all clearin’ out, too?”
I recognized the voice of the man who was camped across the road with his wife.
I couldn’t hear dad’s answer.
“You know he didn’t just fall off that
ledge. He may a’been deaf, but he could see where he was goin’. I bet it was those townies what done it.”
I stood stock still. There was only one person they could be talking about.
“They said he’d been there all night. Talkin’ like it was an accident.”
My heart thumped like I’d been running, and the walls of the tent seemed to closed in on me. I started stuffing my clothes in the duffle bag as fast as I could.
Mom and dad didn’t talk about it as we drove away. And the more they didn’t talk, the more I thought about it. That was the first time it occurred to me to be afraid of the world, not just some monster under the bed, but the real world out there, the one mom and dad couldn’t protect me from.
We went to a much nicer campground, one with a big swimming hole and a sandy beach. I was twelve, easily distracted, and mom and dad must have thought the memory of those two days at the Pageant Campground faded. But at night when I lay alone on my cot, or later in my bed in Dayton I wondered about the crazy man.
Twenty years later I ran across a yellow clipping in my mother’s scrapbook. By now, I’d learned to deal with the world, the one mom and dad couldn’t protect me from. It had taken a long time to overcome the fear I felt that summer, the fear that if I were different, somebody in the crowd would “git” me like they got the crazy man at the campground that summer.
Man Killed in Fall. Dayton Ohio: The body of John Church, a deaf mute, was found at the bottom of Inspiration Point. Authorities said that the man had apparently wandered onto the cliff at night and fallen. The site, ten miles west of Dayton, is on the Pageant Campground where annually the Easter pageant is reenacted by local townspeople.
M. Darusha Wehm became eligible for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer with the publication of “The Care and Feeding of Mammalian Bipeds, v. 2.1” in Escape Pod (Nov. 2012), edited by Mur Lafferty.
Visit her website at darusha.ca.